


Air

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Series: The Albion Rooms [5]
Category: The Libertines
Genre: Break Up, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-06
Updated: 2004-10-06
Packaged: 2017-11-02 19:43:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/372679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl





	Air

It's not every day you wake up and realize that your life hasn't changed all that much, didn't really lose anything, because how can you lose something you never had?

*

"Tea?" Pete had asked around a mouthful of toast, brandishing the kettle, just a bit sloppy. Hot water hissed and jumped where it dribbled from the spout and Carl found himself staring at it, watching as it hovered above Pete's skin, ready to scald.

"Carl?" Pete asked at the same time Carl pushed out, "Careful, careful."

*

Yeah, so you think you can't live without a person, and it hurts, it hurts more than that time you fell down the stairs when you were 11. Even more than that time you took a header off your sister's bike when you were 12. And the thing with the car tyre and socket wrench when you were 13 was nothing compared to this. This is like nothing you've ever felt before.

*

Pete feels his eyes narrow when he swipes the hat off Carl's head, and for a brief moment he thinks he might lay in, open up and start whinging. But he closes his eyes instead, for a moment, feels his lips twitching against a smile.

He looks up and Carl is looking down, heavy lidded and almost amused, so Pete stands up, leans in and mouths, "Leave the hat wearing to us pros."

*

So when you see them with someone else, laughing and smiling and pressing hands to shoulders, it's hard not to get jealous, just out of principle, but the hurt is dulled, worn smooth by calloused hands and orange flames, and singing songs across continents to someone you don't even know anymore, and when they look at you from across the room, across black-clad shoulders and rims of expensive drinks, you feel like a painting on the wall. Interesting, sure, but not worth more than a moment's glance.

*

The last time they kissed, it wasn't sad, or slow, or tinged with regret. It was sloppy and wet and edged with teeth and the taste of pence pieces and pressed in between the pages of some book, held closed for preservation purposes, even when their lips broke apart, even when there was quiet resignation and affected screaming, mashed into their shared past, locked up tight.

*

"Pete."

"Carl."

"All right, then."

"Ta, mate."

*

It's not every day you wake up and realize that you really don't give a fuck, and you mean it, think you might go through your kitchen and break all the dishes only because he's eaten on at least one or two and you don't know exactly which ones, and you want nothing of him here, nothing at all, not even yourself, not even the air you once shared.


End file.
